"Eyes Open"

 It's funny how you get a great idea, a life-changing idea, and then it just slips away into the ether. For all the talk of the complexity of the human brain, it's a pretty crappy computer. Beethoven walked around with a sketchbook so that he wouldn't let that happen to any of his musical ideas. I have done the same, from time to time: gotten out of bed to scratch out an idea that "appeared to me in a dream", but just as often I have fallen back asleep, figuring it will catch up to me later when it's more convenient. 

One such idea came to me last week, and I have endeavoured to hold on to it, to treasure it. It came to me while being massaged. I won't tell you the name of this wondrous person, because I don't want her to get too busy, and not have time for me. Here is what happened: the ministrations of my massotherapist were made in such a loving way, that they made me feel loved, and that sense of being cared for, of needs being met in a deep way, inspired me to feel, well, there is no way to truly describe that feeling, but it made me want to be a better person. After all, when one feels his needs met, one has enough to share with others. 

I am feeling a lot like that lately, ensconced in my bourgeois life, with a roof over my head...etc... I have enough, and I have time and the willingness to share my time, my concern, with other people. And I am doing it in a small way. This is not the sort of "if I give you some attention, then you will give me some in return", rather a sense of being able to give someone some of my attention without desire for reciprocity. Now, I'm not saying I'm living any kind of Saintly Life; I have my limits,  and am very quick to anger and too quick to judge, and judge harshly. But with age has come some knowledge of those limits, and a desire to be of use, and to feel more often the joy of making a difference in someone's life.

I celebrate this partly because the ability to actively encourage, listen to, and care for others is not something I am doing because of my religion; I have none. Nor am I doing it for brownie points with anyone, my Dear Reader included. Rather, it is something that has, I think, naturally unfolded with the passage of time, and the amount of ease that slowly has come my way as retirement begins. I am not religious, neither do I love atheism, because, of course, it is a religion too. Nor am I agnostic; rather, I keep my eyes open and judge for myself. This reminds me of something my dear friend Mike said to me, concerning the church in which he was raised: "I had pretty much made up my mind at the age of 10 that this was a load of B.S."

The phrase "Eyes open!" graces my twitter page. I don't remember where I heard it, maybe it was from the TV series "Kobra Kai", but these two words are rich in meaning, and as important as ever in the age in which we find ourselves. In Don Miguel Ruiz's "The Four Agreements" which I perused earlier this year, the author makes some very valid points about "living in the dream": living with a set of assumptions about the world, about other people, about our place in the world and other people's attitudes toward us. "Eyes Open" reminds me to try to see someone clearly; not as I want them to be, and maybe not even as they see themselves, (although that would be mighty helpful), but as they really are. 

Anyone who is "bored of life" might take up this practise, to try and see others, and of course yourself, as they and as you really are. To get out of the story, the dream, and into something approaching truth.

What dreams do you find yourself falling into these days? Do you feel there are moments when you think  you might be seeing yourself and others as they really are, and not through a filter of stories about them, or a religion or an ideology?

Stefan Zweig and the art of appreciation

 Reading Stefan Zweig's "The World of Yesterday" right now, and I'm almost finished. It is part biography, although the subject reveals virtually no details of his private life, much as Chaplin did in his own biography, and partly a cultural history of Europe from the end of the 19th century until the middle of the second world war.  In this absorbing work, we gain a flavour of Austria at the time of Zweig's bildung, and a very clear look at the ideas and guiding principles of the author. 

Zweig also gives us a glance at his artistic process; how he first "puts no stops on his pen", and then, after the first draft is done, goes over it once, twice and three times to remove anything that is extraneous, anything that doesn't move the story along. I was personally comforted to hear that he was an easily distracted reader himself, and boring passages in others' works were difficult for him, and that this drove him to never want to bore his readers. Perhaps this explains why he became one of the world's best-selling authors. It also made me remember the first pages of Egdon Heath by Thomas Hardy, which I could not get past. I just wanted someone to tell me a story, not describe a gloomy landscape for interminable pages.

I say he says little of his private life, but at the same time, one gains a view of his mental processes and attitudes. His dream of a unified Europe, for example, is a key concept, as is the active appreciation of the work of others. He celebrates those by translating them, and celebrates other notable lives by writing biographies. As well, he is a poet and novelist, and in one important instance, an opera librettist. His collaborator for that project was Richard Strauss, and the window he opens on the great composer's work was new to me. The Strauss Zweig shows us is fully aware of his own shortcomings, and able to criticise his own work, even ruthlessly. As one who is sometimes creative, I know it is difficult to frankly assess one's own output.  Like Pygmalion, I sometimes fall in love with my own notes, and have been devastated when it has been cut, or otherwise messed about with by another.

I love artists who know how to appreciate the work of others. When Zweig rhapsodises about a particular poet or novelist or musician, the praise is effusive, "pressed down, shaken together, and running over". It reminded me of Gunther Schuller's great book on the Swing Era; when there is something he likes, he really lets you know it. It is an antidote to what we usually hear; devastating and withering criticism, whether in print or speech.  

I sometimes sigh inwardly when I think about the meeting of Brahms and Tchaikovsky, each of whom detested the other's work, and wished they had somehow "gotten along". But artists love what they love, and so often, work that is foreign to their aesthetic is hated on a fundamental level. It is wonderful to read one giant appreciate another sincerely. Here are Zweig's words on Hugo von Hoffmansthal:

The appearance of the young Hofmannsthal is and remains notable as one of the greatest miracles of accomplishment early in life; in world literature, except for Keats and Rimbaud, I know no other youthful example of a similar impeccability in the mastering of language, no such breadth of spiritual buoyancy, nothing more permeated with poetic substance even in the most casual lines, than in this magnificent genius, who already in his sixteenth and seventeenth year had inscribed himself in the eternal annals of the German language with unextinguishable verses and prose which today has still not been surpassed. His sudden beginning and simultaneous completion was a phenomenon that hardly occurs more than once in a generation.

 That Zweig doesn't give us the "nitty gritty" on his personal life makes me think of  Montaigne, who seems to take the exact opposite tack: “And therefore, Reader, I myself am the subject of my book: it is not reasonable that you should employ your leisure on a topic so frivolous and so vain.” Zweig instead, puts you in the shoes of his young set growing up in the Austria of the 1880s and 90s, or invites you into the homes and salons of his famous contemporaries and friends, he lets you in on the mood of the time, the concerns of the people at large. His portrait of himself is made in the portrait of a generation.

It has been an absorbing comparison to quite another book I read last summer concerning roughly the same time period: William Shirer's "The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich". Hitler casts a long shadow over both books, and they give off an uncomfortable resonance with the period we are currently living through, where madmen and fools have hoodwinked millions of credulous people into giving in to their worst impulses.  I won't get into politics here, (of course many things desperately need changing right now), but we are in a similar period of upset, flux and uncertainty. 

Let us hope we are heading towards a brighter future.

Twitter thoughts

 "It's amazing, 10 years ago, I really didn't hate people like I do now. Never wished bad things to happen, but that has changed and it's sad." -@sinnndy1, on Twitter

 I can't help but think that we, as a society have gone terribly wrong somewhere. Look at what I do for a large part of my day: reading twitter posts and sometimes engaging with friendly and not so friendly people. Outrage is everywhere, as is the put-down, the burn, the denunciation. One part of my training as an adult was the Dale Carnegie method to become a good public speaker, and an expert in human relations. His first rule is: "Don't criticise, condemn, or complain". Fine, especially if you are selling something, or just trying to get along or get ahead in business. There are days however, and many of them lately, where my discourse is replete with just these three things.

 Nonetheless, peace-making is in my makeup; I believe all people ought to be reconciled one to the other. When there are so many who are dismissive, angry hard-liners it seems a hopeless case. But still I believe in it; and that is one indelible feature of the age: belief. Hundreds of years into the "Age of Reason", we are still believers. I will, in absence of any evidence to the contrary, continue to believe in the power of people to get along, to see in each other a common humanity and a common worth. 

There are those who believe in God, there are those who believe that the last US Presidential election "was stolen", there are even those who believe (and we are told about this every single day on the news), that the Democratic Party in the US is a child-sex and murder ring. I cherish some beliefs, like mine in our shared worth as human beings, and reject others, like the two I have just mentioned. Does that make me a better person? A Bible verse from my childhood comes to mind. (Matthew, chapter 7, 15-17)

"Beware of false prophets. They come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravenous wolves. By their fruit you will recognize them. Are grapes gathered from thornbushes, or figs from thistles? Likewise, every good tree bears good fruit, but a bad tree bears bad fruit." 

I will let the reader judge for herself the fruits of the actions of the zealots of our generation.

Daily routine

A daily routine is one thing I had never had, but one has begun to coalesce around me the last 3 years, and has intensified since covid. I enjoy having a certain order of things I want to do before the day properly starts. Even when there is some urgency to the task that I must perform, (which was decidedly the case today), I stuck to my guns, and spent the first hour and a half doing the first things I always do.

For my entire adult life until I found self-hypnosis, and meditation, I was one of those people who just sprang out of bed. Nowadays, I spend at least 20 minutes trying (in vain) to meditate, (it is futile, but I presist), then I get up, make a coffee and settle down for 3 pages of long-hand. These, I must do now, and even though I used to think such a thing was silly (hence the springing out of bed), I revel in it, I look forward to it. How often lately do I say to my wife: "I can't wait to get up in the morning!"

Once that is over with, I am ready to face the day. 

Waking up, is of course the most beautiful part of any day, whether from a nap or from a night's sleep. In that magic time, life seems mellow and sweet. Then, after a moment or two, the regrets and despair of the previous days, weeks and months settle back on you and crush your sweetness. And then you begin to put back on your personality, like a well-worn coat, and all is lost. 

Yet we persist; and the day brings much joy, much sorrow, much chagrin, much delight. 

Since I am at this point, essentially retired,  I divide my time into little segments, as to give some time to each of the pursuits that interest me. I have a feeling that this list will evolve; how could it not? We evolve over time; indeed, after 6 or so years, every single cell in our bodies has been replaced. We are no longer the same person we were 7 years ago, literally. 

These days, I try to cover these areas:

30 minutes Spanish

60 minutes classical trombone 

30 minutes tuba

30 minutes jazz trombone

30 minutes piano improv

60 minutes composing music

60 minutes writing words.

 

These keep the days full, and the idea after that is to walk about 10k, or at least 10,000 steps. This of course, has proven to be not accomplishable; I have yet to do all of them, but I am often 90%  there. What's the point of all this? My wife says it's to make her feel bad, but I'm sure I have other reasons too...

The thing I often like to do the most is just sit there and watch American politics. That kaleidoscope of crappiness will never tire me. A combination of "whew, I'm glad it's not my country" and "Wow, I'm so much better than those idiots". Talk about your shameful joy! There is a part of me who wants to feel for everyone, even the poor sick president. And there is a part of me who cries "burn baby, burn". As Walt Whitman says: "I am large, I contain multitudes".

Whitman's verse I find hard to take; he is often so clunky and stilted; sort of a like a drunken King James bible prophet who is plugged into the "kosmic soul". But he felt and observed keenly. Not a fighter, he chose to tend the wounded and dying during the civil war. Who knows what horrors he saw and felt. Stefan Zweig, whose memoir I am currently reading was a big fan, and there is no doubt that Walt Whitman fell like a thunder-clap on the world of literature. He sure has his moments. And it's useless to judge art, in a sense; art is so much bigger than you or I, and it's so personal that no-one can truly understand it, even the artist at times. 

And now, after all my callow criticism,  here I am with tears in my eyes, reading one of his elegies to Lincoln:

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

                         But O heart! heart! heart!

                            O the bleeding drops of red,

                               Where on the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

                         Here Captain! dear father!

                            This arm beneath your head!

                               It is some dream that on the deck,

                                 You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

                         Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

                            But I with mournful tread,

                               Walk the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

On Nachos

 It's been a long long struggle to try and "eat healthy", and I am always losing. To quote Justin Bieber from his autobiography: ""Singers aren't supposed to have dairy before a show, but we all know I'm a rule breaker. Pizza is just so good!" Experts have said that the over-stuffing of the gut that some of us do on the regular is a product of unbalanced emotions. But have we looked that the fact that some things are just too delicious? I am certain there is a component of habit as well; just doing something over and over without thinking about it, but I wonder if these expanations are just fooferaw, hiding what is the real obvious solution to my torment about food. It's just too good. 

A certain member of my household, who shall remain nameless, recently begged me to stop baking so many cakes and cookies. And I get it; no one wants to get so plump that they can't tie their shoes (I am currently too plump to tie my shoes without considerable effort). But there is an equal draw just to celebrate life: we are here, we are safe at home, we like each other, and we have enough to eat. If that isn't cause for celebration, I don't know what is. 

 We also have ample time to prepare good food, and not eat on the go. I made a promise to myself a couple of years ago, when I would grab a sandwich from the vending machines at school to stave off the body's cravings for sustenance, that I was never going to eat shitty food again. I am sticking to that promise to myself, and honestly, this time in lock-down has made me appreciate and indulge in the culinary arts as never before. I have gone overboard, of course, but still... think about what Justin Bieber said... 

Since April, I have maintained two new habits that I hope will counterbalance the deleterious effects of over-consumption of foodstuffs: a strength workout 3x a week, and 2-3 times a week walking more than 10k, usually up Mount Royal from my house in NDG. If I cannot be svelte because I am searching to quench my emotional wants through food, or simply because I fucking love pannetone, I am at least somewhat healthy of limb and lung, due to these precautions. 

 Now that we are done with the obligatory "feel-good inspiring" part of the post, let's get back to food. I think one of the proudest of my latest kitchen accomplishments, (aside from learning how to do Bain-Marie cheescake), was made last week, when, in aid of a Star Wars mini-marathon, I once again celebrated life by making a plate of not-too-bad nachos under the broiler, and a large tub of buttered popcorn on the stove in a mere 10 minutes. Boy was I chuffed!

 I find myself reminded of a song from my distant past; a song of celebration, filled with wisdom:

"In heaven, there is no beer; that's why we drink it here".

 

Gordon Pinsent reads from Justin Bieber's autobiography:

Life?

 Well, not much has happened since I last wrote. Things have been incredibly dull this past year. How about all of you, dear readers?

My retirement is looming, and I often address these questions: should I be busy during retirement? Is there something I need to accomplish before I die?  How will I leave a mark? Do I need to leave a mark? And I'm finding the answers pretty interesting. Basically it boils down to this: I could leave something behind of mediocre quality, or maybe even something excellent. I could also make contributions to other people's lives and be a force for good. I could also just enjoy a quiet life, not doing a whole lot until I take the big dirt nap.

And that's a great place to be; a person who is comfortable having had a career, not a notable one, but a nice one anyhow, and is equally comfortable with the idea of passing unsung into the great beyond. It reminds of this poem by Pope: 

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.

Whose heards with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest! who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me dye;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lye.

 

By all accounts, Pope himself was a contentious and ambitious man, which makes this verse all the more surprising.  My dear friend and compadre, Mike Wilson, who has himself just retired, seems to be taking this all to heart. He lives alone, and practises his instrument every day, as he has done for the last 50 or so years, paints beautiful water-colours, and reads a lot, mostly history. These days we don't till the land, and milk cows, but we have enough to eat, and hobbies, and even with the disease currently scourging the land, we can see friends, one at a time, or on line. I have found the idea that I might "Steal from the world, and not a stone tell where I lie" oddly comforting. 

It is the work of a lifetime to learn to die with equanimity, so some say, and I agree in a sense. When one has attended this great banquet, and had his fill, why stick around? And yet; there is a pull towards life. I remember my Mother in hospice care, only a couple or two days left to live, taking her jello. I asked her: why do you want this stuff? And her answer was simple: "because I like it". A body wracked with pain, beset by visitors, still rejoicing in a cool, sweet treat. 

I once did a thought experiment: You are dead, but you have the chance to come back to earth for 20 minutes. You will neither see nor speak to anyone, and you will be doing something completely banal or even unpleasant, like driving to work, or scrubbing the kitchen floor. When I asked my future dead self, "would you come back under these circumstances?" the answer was always "yes". I was surprised, to say the least, but I shouldn't have been. Even in times past, when in the throes of a minor depression (it didn't feel minor to me), I knew that this life was " the greatest show on earth", even if that expression makes little sense. 

I am reminded of what Joe Zuskin, my colleague for a year in the Orchestre Symphonique de Montréal  once said: "Life is short, but if you do it right, it's enough". And oddly, right now, I feel like I have had a good measure of what life has had to offer, and could die tomorrow with no complaints. After telling this to my dear friend Larry, he confided he felt the same way. Do I wish I had climbed Mount Everest? No! I have never been to Khatmandu nor Timbuktu nor Machu Pichu, nor even Kalamazoo, but I feel quite satisfied nonetheless. I have lived, and I am glad to have lived, and at least for now, I have few regrets.

 Right now, I am reminded unfortunately of the anthem of dysfunctional maleness "My Way", words by Paul Anka, written for Frank Sinatra, who was once lithe of body and progressive in his politics, but who had become a bloated Republican at the end, as so many rich people do. I hate this song, because it's the anthem of the self-satisfied self-made man, whose ego is as swollen as his bank account. Maybe some of you can offer me a kinder interpretation of this tiresome ode to the life of a successful Alpha Male. I like Sinatra the striver, the man who understood a broken heart, not the macher, the legend. 

All this Sinatra-bashing is putting me in a bad mood. I love Sinatra; one of the greatest interpreters of popular song who ever lived. Bashing others makes the soul shrink, and not expand, and we want our souls to be free and not tight in our chests. What is the soul? That's a topic for a later installment, but it's timely. During the current pandemic, we have been afforded lots of time to look at our lives and to ask some questions that in our previous lives we didn't have time for. The topic came up this week; my friend Bob, who is as well-balanced an individual as I know, loves to ask people what a soul is: Is it immortal, or is it just the meeting up of a brain and a body. Is there a cosmic- or world-consciousness? When we die, does our soul go up to heaven? 

There are people whom I love and respect, who firmly believe that is what happens. It amazes me that intelligent, perceptive, even brilliant people will fall for the obviously empty promises of a non-existent super-being. I find the concept of an after-life absolutely unbearable. Life is hard enough without having to attend on the humourless Lord of Hosts and sing in his bloody choir once you have snuffed it. But as the French have it: À chacun son goût.

Lots to ponder, and as we are stuck at home, now's the time. Hope your reflections bear fruit, dear Reader. Be well, and I hope you are finding things to enjoy about your life today.